Page 26 of The Tartan Trap

As soon as reality descended, Callum nearly cursed in despair. If Margaret Preston looked like that, her parlor was bound to be flooded with interest. Callum would have to knock numerous other gentlemen upside the head just to get close enough to speak with her.

Callum straightened his shoulders in the following instant. It was a good thing he was nothing if not determined. And if he had to bully three dozen other suitors out of the way, well, it was a good thing Providence had made him taller and stronger than most men. Perhaps all those afternoons swinging an axe and steering a stubborn team of draft horses had been for something, after all.

He reasoned that if nothing else, he was strong enough to simply pick her up and make a run for it. Callum chuckled, not altogether unserious about the idea.

A gentleman approached the blanket, removed his hat, and began speaking to the ladies. Callum couldn’t help notice that Lord Cavendish didn’t seem impressed with the man—Cavendish’s eyes were locked on the hairsbreadth of space between the tips of the gentleman’s shoes and the edge of the blanket.

Callum thought suddenly of the red-headed boy near St. Alban’s who’d sent him on a goose-chase toward the wrong woman and taken his sovereign as payment for bad information.

“That little weasel,” Callum growled.

Ellis cocked his head, his eyes on the gentleman near the picnic. “I quite agree with your assessment. He’s being far too forward. Gentlemen should wait until the start of the Season to begin their courting. It’s an unwritten rule of honor.”

“Is it?” Callum frowned; he’d never heard such a thing.

“Well, no. But part of the support I offer to you is finding reasons to dislike your competition—however thin and implausible the reason might be.”

“You truly are an excellent friend, Ellis.” Callum grinned, his eyes still latched on Margaret. Suddenly, his heart felt light and he couldn’t wait for the Season to begin.

His cousin sat straighter, his saddle squeaking with the motion. “Thank you for noticing. Does this mean you forgive me for burning a hole in the sofa in the lounge with my cigar?”

“What?”

“What?” Ellis repeated. He quickly nodded his head toward the gathering of ladies. “Ooh, look how pretty they all are.”

Callum frowned even as he obligingly turned his attention back to the cheery arrangement. With all of the Preston ladies dressed in fetching pastels with ribbons and lace and expensive tassels dangling from their person, they reminded Callum of a gorgeous floral arrangement or an impressive oil painting, one that he could have lingered and enjoyed for hours.

But there was no doubt in his mind that Margaret was the central point of the beauty. If the ladies were flowers, she was the ruffled abundance of a peony. The others were perhaps roses.

If any average person were asked what the most beautiful flower was, nine out of ten might answer that it was the rose. But Callum had always found roses a bit boring, too predictable. Roses always unfurled in the same manner; roses rarely surprised you. They were pretty enough, he supposed, but if you put one next to the fringed plentitude of a peony in full bloom…well, it wasn’t even a contest.

“What on earth are you thinking about?” Ellis asked, his forehead wrinkled.

“Why do you ask?” Callum said, trying to keep any guilt from his tone. It wasn’t good to compare ladies to anything, let alone something as unimaginative as flowers.

Ellis’s eyes narrowed. “You look like my hound when it spots the kitchen mouser.”

“I was thinking about flowers.”

“I never knew you were interested in horticulture,” Ellis said.

Callum sent one more glance spearing toward the oblivious Margaret Preston and wheeled his horse about. They had lingered too long already—several other groupings of ladies looked as though they were about to casually converge on their position.

“It’s a recent obsession of mine, actually.”

His cousin rolled his eyes. “With interests as bland as that, it’s no wonder you can’t choose an exciting book.”

CHAPTER 9- MARGARET

Margaret hardly knew what to expect the evening of the first ball. She was not like some of the other young ladies who would climb down the steps with stars in their eyes as if their husband might be waiting at the bottom to greet them.

Margaret’s aspirations were far more modest. She reasoned that if she could get through the evening without tripping, dropping a canapé onto her bodice, or otherwise making a fool of herself, she would consider it successful. She planned to keep to the edges and not detract any attention from her sisters.

Perhaps it should have been a relief not to feel the same pressures that other, more beautiful young ladies might. Margaret didn’t have to be concerned about being trampled by a stampede of beaux or keeping space open on her dance card for that special someone. Yet there was a little sadness hiding within her heart, as if the night had already disappointed her before it had begun.

It wasn’t that she was unhappy with her appearance that evening when she stepped from the carriage in front of the grand mansion. On the contrary. Margaret had chosen a pale, seafoam green dress with a sweetheart neckline that emphasized her ample bosom, a tight bodice with a waist that nipped in as much as possible, and a flowing skirt that whispered around her legs as she walked.

Chloe had tamed the strands closest to Margaret’s face into several thick braids and wielded her tongs as best she could on the rest of her unruly mane. The effect was quite pleasing, and as long as there wasn’t a sudden rainstorm, Margaret thought her initial entrance into the Duke and Duchess of Bedford’s ball would not put her to shame.